Primal Forces
by Tastywheat
Summary: What happens when the most powerful male in the history of the Blood goes into rut?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this work of fanfiction belong to Anne Bishop and her publisher. No money is being made off this work. I am merely playing in someone else's sandbox.

Post-Dreams Made Flesh.

**Primal Forces**

He should have recognized the signs: The threadbare temper. The way the scent of the maids grated on his nerves. The urge to lash out at any male in the vicinity, even Beale or Jazen.

Most of all, he should have known from the way he hungered for Jaenelle.

Daemon stalked swiftly through the corridors of the Hall in search of Beale. He had to find him quickly before the madness hit, before he lost his already shaky control of himself and did something he would regret.

He found him in one of the sitting rooms organizing the day's mail.

"I need you to get everyone out," said Daemon without preamble, bursting in.

Beale slowly put down the letters. "Everyone, sir?" he asked carefully, watching Daemon.

Daemon paced—no, prowled—the opposite side of the room like a panther in a cage. He dared not get any closer. Already he was one breath away from the killing edge.

"Yes, everyone. Every living thing in this place, Kindred included. The wolves, too."

Beale nodded, recognizing the rage that was barely chained. He kept his voice low and even, to avoid inciting an attack. "The Lady as well?"

Daemon stopped.

Yes. No. Hell's fire, he didn't know. He _knew_ what he had to do, but the hunger….

"_Especially_ the Lady."

He had to get out of the room. Beale's presence as another Warlord Prince was undoing his control faster than he could handle. His hands were clenched from the effort of restraining himself.

"You have 30 minutes to get everyone out before I Black-lock the entire Hall."

And then he was gone, taking the overwhelming tension and sense of imminent danger with him. It was a moment before Beale could breathe normally. Even his usually unflappable exterior was slightly shaken.

There was only one thing that could rival Queen's rage, Witch's rage in making Beale afraid: the idea of a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, the most powerful male in all the Realms—the most powerful _Blood_ in all the Realms—going into rut.

_May the Darkness have mercy upon us all._

*********************************************************

Daemon paced feverishly.

The Warlord Prince was rising. He could feel that power rumbling deep down inside him, rattling the chains that held it in check. Whereas the Sadist was cold silk, smooth and inviting until he was wound tightly around your neck, the Warlord Prince was a force of nature. It was what the male Blood were when the veneer of civility was stripped away. It was the Blood at their most basic, most primal state. And it was almost here.

He threw a glance at the doors leading to Jaenelle's bedroom and was grateful that they were closed and silent. Thirty minutes had passed since he had shut himself inside his rooms. He hoped Beale had gotten everyone out. He didn't dare do a sweep to check, for fear that he would be tempted to lash out at anyone he found, especially a male. Anyone who stayed would be a fool who deserved to die anyways, but he still didn't want to risk it.

He knew he had cut it close this time, but he hadn't realized what was happening until the last minute. The rut had never hit him like this before.

Sex or violence—that was the rut. Often it was both, but there was always passion of some sort involved. And blood.

In the past, he didn't have a female to focus his sexual energy on, so it would always be violence. He would awake from the haze in the middle of a massacre. Entire courts have been destroyed, buildings leveled, towns emptied by fleeing Landens and Blood during the times he went into rut. And he had not cared one bit.

The first time it happened, the Terreille bitches thought this would finally be their chance. Surely he would be so crazed with sexual energy that he wouldn't care who he mounted. They could sell tickets and line up for two rides apiece! Too bad in their eagerness they forgot that males caught up in the rut focused only on one female. That sexual energy turned into violence against anyone who was not their object of desire. And there was no one that Daemon desired.

This time was different, though. This time he could actually destroy something he cared about.

"Daemon?"

He wheeled on her voice so fast that Jaenelle didn't even have time to gasp.

"Get out!" he snarled.

He hadn't heard her knock, hadn't heard the door open, which was a bad sign. His awareness and control were nearly gone. He would have flung her out the door if he had trusted himself to touch her.

She stood just inside, dressed in a flimsy black silk sheath that hid as much as it revealed. One rip and it would be gone. Daemon's fingers itched. Oh, the foolishness of tempting him. The Warlord Prince could _smell_ her….

"Get out!"

He didn't care if she got mad at him for screaming at her; he would rather bruise her feelings than break her limbs.

Instead of recoiling or turning away, she carefully closed and locked the door behind her, her movements slow and precise. If she was feeling any hesitation or fear about being in the room with a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince about to go into rut, she didn't show it—at least, not in her face. Daemon could smell wariness and caution, but not the emotions that would trigger his predatory instincts. She was not challenging the Warlord Prince, but she was not marking herself as prey either.

She had him fixed in her steely sights. Daemon could feel her gaze traveling over him, taking in the sheen of sweat on his skin and the tension and desperation in every line of his body. She was weighing him, judging him with her unfathomable eyes like she had done on those occasions where she was about to make a decision that would affect them both.

"Get out," he repeated, though there wasn't much bite behind his words this time. He already knew her decision.

Even so, Daemon felt the floor fall out from beneath his feet when she said, simply and succinctly, "No."

_Mother Night_. This was not the time for her to be stubborn. Surely she knew he wasn't doing this solely for her sake. Because if she stayed, and he awoke afterward with her blood on his hands….

"Please, just leave." He was not above begging. Time was running out. He was prepared to do whatever it took to make sure she survived.

She took one step closer. Daemon could feel the Warlord Prince in him focusing on her with keen interest. Cursing, he forced himself one step back, and the Warlord Prince howled with rage.

She took another measured step closer. "I'm not afraid of you, Daemon."

Daemon cringed. "Maybe you should be."

_Because the Darkness knows _I_ am_. As much as it pained him to admit it, he didn't trust himself around Jaenelle. Males were automatically absolved of anything they did while caught in the rut, but for a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, the potential for destruction was immeasurable. And for a newly married husband, the stakes were even greater.

He had never experienced the rut this way before, and he had no idea what the Warlord Prince was going to do once he got his hands on Jaenelle. (Actually, he knew _exactly_ what the Warlord Prince was going to do, but that was anything but reassuring.) Daemon never wanted Jaenelle to be afraid of him, but if he couldn't trust himself, how could she trust him?

Jaenelle rolled her eyes and huffed in annoyance. "I'm _fully healed_, Daemon. I thought we went over this already. I'm not going to break again from a few days' worth of rough sex."

"I know that!" growled Daemon. He paced his side of the room, his hands clenched in frustration and desperation. "But I don't think you understand the danger of the situation. This won't be just another one of our rough-and-tumble sessions. I won't be myself. I don't know if I'll even recognize you through the haze."

Jaenelle's eyes narrowed. "I think _you_ might be the one who doesn't understand the full danger of the situation. This power within yourself that you are so afraid of: what do you think might happen if it didn't have an object to focus on?"

Daemon remembered the torn bodies and crumbled buildings of Terreille, and then imagined the same scene here in Kaeleer, especially in nearby Hallaway. He felt sick to his stomach.

Jaenelle nodded. "Exactly. Believe me, I know precisely what I am walking in to and what's at stake."

"And so you will sacrifice yourself for others yet again?" He sounded wounded and angry, but he didn't care. This whole argument touched on scars that were not very old at all.

Jaenelle snorted. "I might not have the power that I used to have, but I'm hardly a helpless damsel. Before you got here, I used to tangle with Lucivar whenever he was caught in the rut."

Daemon growled and instantly wished a painful death upon his brother.

Jaenelle gave an exasperated sigh. "Not in _that_ way. With the _sticks_. How else do you think I got so good with them?"

That tidbit of information gave Daemon pause. If she could take on a trained Ebon-Gray Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince who had an uncommonly close relationship with his blade, then it stood to reason that she might be able to handle an unarmed Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

Still, reason didn't stand a chance against the rut. The rut was what Warlord Princes would be like in the _absence_ of reason. It was pure instinct.

Couldn't she see why he was so afraid?

"Lucivar has always had the advantage when it came to a physical fight, but we both knew there would be no contest if it came down to raw power against power. The Black will always win over the Ebon-Gray. That's why we never truly fought to kill, even when we couldn't stand each other."

It was the unspoken truce between them in the centuries before they learned of their common descent. It became the unacknowledged truth that kept them back from the killing edge in the time since.

"Fighting Lucivar is very different from fighting me. That's why we make such a deadly team," he said quietly. "I have no idea what I'm capable of, and I'm terrified of waking up to find you injured—or worse."

Of course, the potential for violence had always been there. For Warlord Princes, the line between passion and violence was always blurred. But in the rut, the line was virtually nonexistent. Her presence alone made his blood run hot in their day-to-day interactions; he didn't know how far he would take things if his primal hunger was unleashed now.

Memories of a blood-drenched alter floated up like debris.

_NO._ Daemon forcefully shoved the image aside. He had to remind himself that he was not the one responsible. He had not killed her. It had been a lie, one that had cost him dearly. But it was a lie that could become truth if she did not leave soon.

His eyes searched hers, pleading for understanding. "Do you have any idea what it would do to me to find out that I had killed you with my own hands—for real this time?"

Jaenelle's face hardened, the first sign of anger since she came in. "Of course I do. It would destroy you. Don't think that I've forgotten your history, Prince. I saw the shattered pieces; I put them together myself. I probably know better than anyone the extent of the damage wrought and the price you paid. Which is precisely why I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to spare you the same pain."

"Then why won't you leave me here?"

He could see that the question hurt her. Her voice was tight as she said, "Because I've already left you twice to suffer alone. I won't do it a third time."

His eyebrows rose. She couldn't possibly still feel guilty for choices that she had been forced to make. The first time, she left him to suffer in the Twisted Kingdom, but that was hardly her fault since her mind had blocked her memories. The second time, she had chosen to sacrifice herself for her loved ones, and she had more than repaid the debt she owed for using him and then leaving him alone.

He made to protest, but she held up her hand—the hand with her wedding ring. The sapphire gleamed like blue fire.

"When I accepted this ring, I accepted all of you. Completely and without condition. I accepted your strengths and your weaknesses, your gifts and your needs. I accepted all the love you had to offer, as well as all the responsibilities that came with being husband and wife."

The ring was a stark reminder of the bond of honor between them, similar to a Queen's duty to care for the members of her court, especially the male triangle around her. They served, and in return she took care of them. It was an integral part of Blood society, and the same ties of love, loyalty, service, protection, duty, and obligation bound husband and wife together. He couldn't possibly reject her help without rejecting _her_.

This time he let her approach. Her steps were as sure as the look in her eyes. She rested her hand gently on his shoulder and forced him to look at her.

"I don't break my vows, Daemon. You should know that by now. I won't run from you."

She knew what he needed to hear to take down the wall of fear that separated them. He pulled her close, needing to feel her body, her strength. These were possibly the last moments he would be aware of his actions, and he needed to feel the truth with his hands.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Promise me, you'll do whatever is necessary to protect yourself if I become too violent."

_Whatever is necessary_, including injuring or even killing him. Because if he was going to kill her, it would be more merciful for her to kill him first than to let him wake up to face what he had done. It was a selfish request, because it would hurt her to have to kill him, but he couldn't let her stay otherwise. A Warlord Prince was expendable; a Queen was not.

She understood what he was asking of her.

"I promise," she said solemnly.

He nodded, accepting her word. "It's almost time. Are you ready to dance the razor's edge with me?"

"I've always been ready."

He held her in front of him, searching for the source of that strength. "How can you be so sure? We've never done this before."

Witch raised her midnight eyes. "Because you'll be dancing with _me_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this work of fanfiction belong to Anne Bishop and her publisher. No money is being made off this work. I am merely playing in someone else's sandbox.

Post-Dreams Made Flesh.

**Primal Forces**

**Chapter 2**

Lucivar felt the sudden change in mood, the sharp spike in caution through the Ring he still wore—the Ring that Jaenelle had given him and the rest of the First Circle. It wasn't quite fear, which would've triggered a much larger signal along the link, but it was enough to let him know that something was not right.

*Cat? What's going on?*

*Stay away* came the quick answer, which of course only made Lucivar want to drop everything and head for the Hall.

*Unless you give me an explanation, Cat, I'm coming over right now.*

*No!*

There was a forcefulness bordering on panic in the one-word message. Jaenelle never sounded like that. Lucivar instantly shifted into high alert. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

*Jaenelle?*

Not "Cat," but "Jaenelle" this time.

There was a pause at the other end. She must've heard his worry, but something was distracting her.

Finally, after several agonizing seconds, her reply came. *Stay away, unless the worst happens. Then bring Saeten and everything you've got.*

Lucivar froze. *Why?*

Another pause, and then came the words that made Lucivar's blood run cold.

*Because Daemon's in rut.*

* * *

Lucivar burst into Saetan's quarters like a storm, his thoughts and emotions clashing like lightning. He pointed a finger at his father, who looked unsurprised by the sudden intrusion.

"Do you know?"

Saetan set aside the glass of yarbarah that he had been nursing for the last half hour and looked at Lucivar evenly. "If you're talking about Daemon, then yes, I know he's in rut right now."

Lucivar snarled in frustration and started pacing, his wings flared. "Why didn't you say something or do something? Jaenelle's with him right now. You could have stopped her. You could have told her to come here to the Keep."

One corner of Saetan's mouth curled up, but it was not from amusement. "You're assuming that I knew ahead of time, and that she would've listened to me."

"Then how did you find out?"

"Beale sent me a message."

Lucivar had the urge to shake him until his even-temperedness shattered. Or at least until his goddamn sweater got rumpled. He needed something sharp to blunt his temper on, and Saetan wasn't giving it to him.

"And you didn't even try to reason with her? You didn't warn her of the danger?"

Saetan's eyes narrowed. "I think she's well aware of the danger. If you recall, this isn't the first time she's been around a Warlord Prince in rut. She handled you just fine."

"Yes, but this is different."

The Black was always different. And the Sadist…. Lucivar shuddered. He didn't want to admit it out loud, especially in front of Saetan, but sometimes Daemon scared the shit out of him.

"Can you honestly say that she'll be all right?" Lucivar demanded. "She's not the same Queen as she was when she helped me through the rut. She can't call on her power like before. If he chooses to Black-lock the room, she wouldn't be able to escape or call for help. Who knows what he will do to her while caught in the rut? She could be maimed or killed!"

"I know that!" Saetan growled. Lucivar stepped back, momentarily surprised. "Don't you think I've been sitting here envisioning all the terrible scenarios that could be playing out right now? Don't you know how frustrating it is for me to sit here sipping my goddamn yarbarah and doing nothing?"

"Then why don't you _do_ something?" Lucivar yelled back, temper flaring. It felt good to get some of his frustration out.

"What do you propose I do?" Saetan shot back. "Go over there and pull her away? _Go take a female away from a Warlord Prince in rut?_ Maybe I should try to _reason_ with him while I'm at it?" Saetan snorted. "Believe me, if I thought there was anything I could do, I would have done it already. I'm just as worried about Jaenelle as you are, so don't come in here acting outraged and pretending you're the only one who cares, boyo. We all stand to lose a piece of ourselves if anything happens to her—Daemon more so than any of us."

As Saetan spoke, he didn't notice his nails digging into the arms of his couch, leaving deep marks. Lucivar suddenly realized that his father's surface calm was just his way of dealing with his own fear. Saetan was like Daemon in many ways—they could both burn cold, whereas Lucivar always burned hot. They withdrew behind their masks and their calmness when faced with something they feared or loathed, whereas Lucivar exploded outward. It was this seeming lack of reaction that made them so dangerous and unpredictable. Because while Lucivar would eventually burn out his anger or frustration, their emotions became more and more compact, more condensed, crystallizing inside them like diamonds until the outer shield cracked and they exploded in a sharp, glittering rage.

His father was usually good at keeping his emotions in, but Lucivar was relieved to see a flash of anger this time, even if it was directed at him. It made him feel less alone.

Everything in him wanted to head to the Hall right now to rescue Jaenelle and drag her to the Keep for the next few days, but he knew that he would be killed before he even got to the bedroom door. Daemon would sense his approach and treat him like any other male—a rival to be eliminated. If Daemon rose to the killing edge, there was a good chance he might not have stepped back by the time he turned his attention back to Jaenelle again.

Lucivar clenched his fists in frustration. He hated feeling powerless. It was in his nature as an Eyrien warrior and as a Warlord Prince to take a threat on directly, especially if the threat was directed at those he felt he had a claim on, and _especially_ if it was his Queen. Doing nothing was worse than trying something and being killed in the attempt, but in this situation, _anything_ he tried could make things worse for Jaenelle. He had no choice but to sit tight and wait out the rut.

That didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

"Sit down before you burn holes in my rug with your eyes," Saetan grumbled.

"I thought I'd make your rug match your couch," replied Lucivar snippily, but he took the space next to Saetan anyway.

Saetan threw him a look, but he let the comment slide. He picked up his glass and started reheating the yarbarah. The calmness was back in place.

"Can you sense anything through your Ring?" he asked.

Lucivar shook his head. "Just a low level of wariness and caution, like background noise. No signs of distress or injury—yet."

"Does the Ring channel anything else besides strong or negative emotions?"

"No, thank the Darkness. If I could feel it every time Daemon made her happy, especially in bed, I wouldn't be able to walk." He made a sour face when Saetan laughed. "Never mind. Have you thought about trying to reach her? Just to make sure she's okay?"

"I imagine she's busy right now and needs all her wits about her. I wouldn't want to risk distracting her," said Saetan soberly. "That is, assuming it's even possible to reach her. Daemon probably put a psychic shield up."

Meaning that while Saetan _might_ be able to get a message through to Jaenelle, Jaenelle would have no way of responding, so trying it would have been pointless.

Lucivar suddenly remembered the reason he had sought out Saetan in the first place, besides the fact that he was the only male who stood any chance at all against Daemon.

"Jaenelle was able to send me a message right before I came here." Lucivar gave his father a wary glance. "She said, 'Stay away, unless the worst happens. Then bring Saeten and everything you've got.'"

_That_ got his attention. "Those were her exact words?"

"Yes."

Instead of looking worried, Saetan looked thoughtful. "Did she say anything else? Did she say why she wanted you to bring me in particular?"

Lucivar thought it was rather obvious why he would need to bring Saetan.

"No, but you're currently the only other member of the Blood to wear the Black, so you're the only one strong enough to handle Daemon if he's still caught in the rut."

Saetan shrugged noncommittally. "Sometimes it's not a matter of strength. Even the Black can be drained if there are enough attackers coming from all sides."

"Do you think you'll be strong enough if the worst happens?"

Saetan stared into the deep red wine in his glass. "Depends what she means by 'the worst.'"

Lucivar wondered if his father was purposely being dense. "If Jaenelle dies, obviously."

Saetan gave his son a mildly chastising look. "That's what 'the worst' means to you, boyo. It might not necessarily be the same for Jaenelle. Remember what happened the last time Daemon thought he had killed her? That was before they had truly known each other, before they became husband and wife, or even Queen and Consort. Now that he has what he had dreamed about for all those centuries, I can't imagine what would happen if he crushed his dream with his own hands. He nearly lost her twice before, and that was devastating enough. Is she asking me if I will be strong enough to pick up the pieces and hold him together if she is really gone this time? Or is she asking me for the strength to put him out of his misery? To kill my own son? Either way, I don't know the answer. I really don't know."

Saetan considered the yarbarah and took a sip. The blood wine could be sweet, but sometimes it could be bitter. It was Saetan's theory that the taste depended on the giver as well as the receiver. The wine was difficult to swallow today. He sighed and set it aside.

"There is also the possibility that Jaenelle will choose to end Daemon herself, to save him from that agony. She has always loved us more than she loves herself, but Daemon is her husband and her true mate. Only she has the right to kill him. If he pushes her enough, she will reach for the dark power she once had to do what needs to be done."

Lucivar looked surprised. Saetan answered his unasked question.

"Yes, I think that power still exists somewhere inside her, waiting to be called upon. It was still in the Web I saw on the Arachnians' island. If she has to, she will destroy him in order to save him. And she will do so, knowing that she will die because of it."

Saetan looked in the direction of her quarters down the hall, where she had spent so many months deep within the Mountain, healing from the horrific rebound of the power she had unleashed upon Terreille. If she summoned that power again from the depths where it now lay dormant, it would come crashing down on her in much the same way.

"So I guess the other question is, Will I have the strength to watch her be consumed by her own power? Can I bring myself to end _her_ life if she asked it of me? Will I even have the power to burn out the rest of her strength and allow her to return to the Darkness? I don't know. I can only hope that I won't have to find out what she means by 'if the worst happens.'"

Lucivar sighed, sobered by the different scenarios. "I guess we'll just have to trust that she knew what she was walking in to and that she'll come out alive."

Saetan put an arm around his son.

"Yes. It's the only thing we can do right now. We sit, we wait, and we hope."


End file.
